


Le Bateleur et Le Mat

by officialchildermass



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Childermass - Freeform, Honeyfoot, John Childermass - Freeform, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Freeform, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, M/M, Mr Honeyfoot - Freeform, Mr Segundus, Segundus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4015366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialchildermass/pseuds/officialchildermass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Magician and The Fool are cards from the Tarot de Marseilles.</p>
<p>Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot became close friends thanks to their shared interest in reviving English Magic, and always seemed to be at the right place at the right time. These coincidences attracted the attention of a certain Mr Childermass, who was not a man fond of coincidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Bateleur et Le Mat

~*~ 13th of January, 1806 ~*~

“Mr Norrell?”

The man who answered their knocking opened the door a chink further. From his higher position on the steps leading to the impressive wooden entrance doors of Hurtfew Abbey, he peered down at Mr Segundus, who uttered these words.

Mr Segundus looked up at the man. He was tall, and had curly dark-brown hair, which would have fallen in waves over his shoulders had he not tied it up in an ponytail. In most other men, Mr Segundus would have called the cut of his hair rather untidy, but it seemed to suit this stranger rather well.

Giving Mr Segundus the most miniscule shake of the head possible, the man seemed to bite the side of his tongue. He looked at Mr Segundus and his older companion, then raised his glance over their heads, gazing into the night.

Then, keeping his gestures minute, he jerked his head toward the entrance, toward the bowels of the house, and at its centre, its prize: Mr Norrell’s library. However, this was hitherto unknown to Mr Segundus and his friend, the good Mr Honeyfoot.

Hesitantly, the two gentlemen magicians walked up the remaining steps and followed the man inside. The hallway they entered was quite dark. This was of itself not remarkably strange, since the sun had set some hours ago, but there had been a great number of candles burning. However, the wind blowing through the door upon the entrance of Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot made all of them gutter out. A sole exception was the candle the man had taken from a sconce and had shielded from the wind with his hand. The man turned around and spoke his first words to them, in a guttural, humming voice.

“Follow me, sirs.” 

~*~&~*~

When the carriage drove them back to York, Mr Segundus kept turning his mind over the magician’s man of business rather than over Mr--

“A practical magician, Mr Segundus! I cannot wait to bring the Society this wonderful news!”

Mr Honeyfoot kept chattering away about Mr Norrell and his tremendous library, and only when Mr Honeyfoot mentioned Mr Norrell’s books did Mr Segundus manage to turn his attention to the present.

“That reminds me!” cried Mr Segundus. “Do you remember that antiquarian who passed away recently?”

“John Cade?” Mr Honeyfoot supplied, most helpfully.

“Exactly. His belongings will be auctioned in Gainford, I heard. Including a _book of magic_. One of the Society’s gentlemen I encountered in York yesterday told me so. I had meant to tell you, but then the letter from Mr Norrell came in and... we were preoccupied.” Mr Segundus smiled.

Mr Honeyfoot worried his lower lip. “That is quite a journey to make, and besides do you not think that Mr Norrell has caught wind of it yet?”

Upon seeing Mr Segundus’s smile fade, Mr Honeyfoot rapidly added, “however, nothing prevents our going there. When do you propose we shall leave?” 

~*~&~*~

They left early next morning, long before first light, after a restless night for both men, for different reasons.

In all honesty, Mr Honeyfoot’s doubts about Mr Norrell knowing of the book sale had not left him alone all night. He would rather not go at all, and thus spare his dear friend Mr Segundus a great deal of disappointment upon arriving in Gainford and finding Mr Norrell, with a great sum of money, no doubt, to snatch the book away in front of their eyes.

Meanwhile, Mr Segundus, after igniting the carriage’s lights, threw their luggage on the designated luggage rack and jumped into the carriage, full of glee and un-gentlemanly excitement.

Still contemplating, Mr Honeyfoot tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes, and then wrapped his cloak around himself tightly. The January air nipped at his throat, and the sky was grey.

If it was truly a book of magic to be sold this afternoon… Taking their previous disappointments into account, Mr Honeyfoot would bet that Mr Norrell would be present. Except, of course, Mr Honeyfoot was a gentleman, and gentlemen do not bet.

“Come on, Mr Honeyfoot!” called Mr Segundus.

Mr Honeyfoot sighed, forced a smile on his face and made his way to the carriage.

They changed horses in Little Hutton and again in Thornton-le-Street. On both occasions, Mr Honeyfoot tentatively proposed to take some refreshments, but Mr Segundus was anxious to be on time, and as Mr Honeyfoot himself had remarked, it was quite a journey. Mr Segundus urged the driver to rush and fortunately, frost had hardened the previously muddy roads, and apart from the places it was too icy to go fast, they made fairly good progress.

When they were just past Northallerton, Mr Segundus suddenly leaned forward from his slouched position to peer out of the frosted window. He rubbed his sleeve against the glass to get a better view.

Mr Honeyfoot, who had almost fallen asleep, became curious to what Mr Segundus saw and, despite sitting comfortably, eased himself upright to look out of the window. Besides the wintery, dreary landscape he saw nothing special, and he was about to say that when he heard a horse approaching quickly.

Mr Segundus was sat with his back to the driver, because Mr Honeyfoot always became terribly motion sick if he were the one who sat there. Thus Mr Segundus saw who was approaching -- he narrowed his eyes, then they grew wide with shock or disbelief (Mr Honeyfoot could not tell which. While they had been good friends for a while now, Mr Segundus was a very well-positioned gentleman who rarely displayed emotions other than excitement, happiness, slight abashment or the occasional disappointment).

“What is it, Mr Segundus? _Who_ is it?” Mr Honeyfoot asked as the horse and its rider flew past the carriage, in full gallop overtaking their calm trot and soon the sound of hooves slowly died away ahead of them.

“I don’t know. Surely it can’t be…” murmured Mr Segundus.

After a moment of contemplation, Mr Honeyfoot carefully asked, “was it Mr Norrell?”

He could not imagine it was, since Mr Norrell, proud owner of the most enormous library Mr Honeyfoot had ever laid eyes on, seemed not the type to ride a horse at a reckless speed on icy roads. Still, if it was in fact Mr Norrell, they might just as well turn back.

“No. No, I do not think it was Mr Norrell,” said Mr Segundus.

The look on Mr Segundus’s face caused Mr Honeyfoot to remain quiet.

By the time they reached Gainford it was long past noon, but they still had some hours before the auction would start. Mr Segundus seemed recovered from his temporary daze, and with his restored, familiar delight proposed to explore the village. Mr Honeyfoot had long given up hopes for refreshment and, with a sigh, agreed.

They explored the crumbled church tower of St Mary, then ambled around the village until it was time to attend the auction. They entered the late Mr Cade’s house and saw that quite a crowd had gathered.

Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus found a place on the front row, and Mr Segundus leaned towards Mr Honeyfoot and whispered, “do you think all these people are theoretical magicians?”

“I am afraid I do not know,” Mr Honeyfoot whispered back. “But I think I recognise Mr Weatherford from the disbanded Manchester Society.”

After a pause, Mr Honeyfoot asked, “do you actually know which book of magic will be up for auction?”

“If I remember correctly, it is Francis Sutten-Grove’s _Prescriptions and Descriptions_ _1_ , from seventeen-forty-nine.”

The auctioneer smashed his wooden hammer against the desk he was standing behind and asked for attention. Slowly but surely, the murmuring in the room diminished to a buzz, and after a few severe looks, it became completely quiet.

“Dear gentlemen!” cried the auctioneer.

A lady coughed.

“My dear ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer amended gruffly, “welcome to the auction of the late Mr Cade’s collections. We will start with his wonderful collection of china, existing of a full set of four cups and saucers. These aren’t just any cups, oh no!”

The auctioneer rambled on and finally sold the set for three guineas and five shillings _2_. Mr Honeyfoot could not for the life of him imagine why anyone would want to spend so much money on tableware, but then again, Mr Segundus and himself were planning to spend much more on books. However, according to Mr Honeyfoot, books were worth an investment much more than any china available; especially a book of magic.

“Next up! Mr Cade’s collection of _books_!”

Both Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot shot upright, but it turned out to be a pile of novels and poetry, including a first print _Robinson Crusoe_ (one guinea) and a wonderful, well-preserved folio of Shakespeare’s sonnets (Mr Honeyfoot wanted to offer ten shillings, but suddenly the prices shot up and there was some heavy bidding, after which it was sold for _fifty_ guineas).

After Shakespeare, many of the attendees left, all but one of them with disappointed faces.

The afternoon wore on and on, and many wonderful albeit useless objects were auctioned.

Then, suddenly, the tired auctioneer announced that the last item on the list was “a queer little book, by a certain Mr…”

The man peered down over the rim of his glasses, “Frances Stone-Grove!”

Mr Segundus groaned, but when the auctioneer called, “anyone for one guinea?” Mr Honeyfoot had the presence of mind to raise his hand.

“Two guineas?”

Apparently someone behind them had raised his or her hand, because the auctioneer extended a hand and said, “to the gentleman in the back. Two guineas. Anyone for three guineas?”

Mr Honeyfoot raised his hand.

“Four guineas?”

The auctioneer nodded at the mysterious bidder at the back of the room.

“Five guineas-- ah, for the man here at the front. Anyone for… ten guineas?”

Mr Honeyfoot heard Mr Segundus blow out a nervous breath.

“Fifteen? Twenty? Twenty-five?”

At thirty-five guineas, Mr Honeyfoot swallowed but still raised his hand. They were running out of funds, the highest they could possibly go was fifty guineas.

Their opponent bid forty guineas, and then Mr Segundus suddenly cried, “fifty guineas!”

Clever man, thought Mr Honeyfoot, feeling proud of his friend: hopefully their opponent would be daunted by a ‘third’ bidder.

Unfortunately, Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus were out of tricks, and--

A voice came from the back of the room, a guttural, humming voice. “One hundred guineas.”

Mr Honeyfoot let himself fall back in his chair, defeated. Mr Segundus, however, had turned around in his chair, suddenly white as chalk.

Mr Honeyfoot followed his gaze and saw the man they had met just yesterday evening -- Mr Norrell’s man of business. The name escaped Mr Honeyfoot for the moment, but he understood Mr Segundus’s bewilderment (while not the _amount_ of it).

Mr Segundus coughed, stood up, and bowed as the man approached them.

“Mr Childermass,” Mr Segundus said, with badly hidden anxiety.

“Mr Segundus,” Childermass said, with an infinitesimal incline of the head, then turned towards Mr Honeyfoot, “and Mr Honeyfoot.”

Without sparing them another glance, Childermass moved towards the auctioneer and dug up a heavy-looking, well-filled purse, which he placed on the desk. He was handed the Sutton-Grove book, turned around, raised his eyebrows and smirked at the baffled Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot.

Then he left.

 

_footnotes_

_1_ Norrell despises the book, and Jonathan Strange tore his copy into pieces and fed them to a donkey.

_2_ One guinea roughly translates to 70 pounds nowadays. Twenty or twenty-one shillings to one guinea. Guineas were replaced by pounds in 1816’s Great Recoinage, and one guinea was one pound.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is highly appreciated.


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